The Hospital
by extravagantandwheelingstranger
Summary: After an induced coma, Sherlock finally wakes up in hospital...and is on hallucinogenic pain medication. Sherlock at his most adorable :
1. Chapter 1

"Sir, he's coming round."  
>"Thank god, finally. Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?"<br>"Please be patient sir, he could go into shock if you wake him too quickly. That bullet wound was just AWFUL…sorry, how did you say he got it?"  
>"With all due respect, miss nurse…lady… well, it's Sherlock. And it's 8 in the morning. Even if he has been out for two days, he knows its morning and so he's going to be a lazy bugger for hours unless I hassle him. See? There we go! Good morning, Sherlock! You alright?" Sherlock blearily half-opened his eyes and immediately tightly closed them again, groaning loudly. "I told you to keep the fairies out of my bedroom, John! Too sparkly!" he tried to curl up in the foetal position and then realised he had an I.V drip in his arm. He stared at it in wonder, completely oblivious to John's gaping mouth. "It's the painkillers, sir." the nurse explained helpfully to John, trying very hard not to giggle. "They work wonderfully, but they have certain…hallucinogenic side-effects on some patients."<br>"No no no drugs! Lestrade…Lestrade will search the flat again! And I promised Mummy!" Sherlock loudly interrupted in the voice of a pedantic eight-year-old, tugging at the tube in his arm. It took four nurses to hold Sherlock down and persuade him not to take the drip out. Knowing that reasoning with the nurses was a lost cause, Sherlock turned his biggest, saddest puppy eyes to John, who nearly melted even before Sherlock spoke, in his wobbly sobby voice, "but John, I NEED to go home. What if Mrs. Hudson takes my skull while I'm away? What if she reads my mail? What if-John, what if she CLEANS?" Sherlock begged, his voice a terrified breathy squeak. John shook his head in utter disbelief and simply laid a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to be reassuring. It was all he could do to keep a straight face as he told him. "don't fret, I'll protect all your dangerous experiments and creepy possessions." this seemed to be all the incredibly high version of Sherlock needed, and so he snuggled down into his pile of pillows, mumbling something that sounded like "thankyou darling", but could just as easily have been "fang-toothed marlin." In Sherlock's present state, both seemed fairly equally plausible.

John decided to stay at the hospital for the night, but badly needed food, and bumped into Mycroft on the way down to the cafeteria to eat dinner. Or more accurately, Mycroft's wildly swinging umbrella hit John's shin in a crowded hallway and turned his psychosomatic limp into a real limp for the rest of the night. Mycroft was 'making visits to my dear brother as often as my busy schedule will allow', in his words. Which meant that this was his second visit since Sherlock had been admitted nearly three days previously, and the first visit had been merely to sign all the health insurance paperwork with a bulky bodyguard standing by, much to the excitement of the young and gossipy female nurses. Instead, Mycroft had somehow organised with the doctors that all information about Sherlock's vital signs, prognosis, medication etc. was to be streamed directly to Mycroft's phone. "A sign of the times, I'm afraid." He smiled apologetically to John as they ate, John having bought some rather cold Chinese, whilst Mycroft produced a pre-packaged salad from his briefcase with the slight grimace of a man that knew he would probably never shift those stubborn ten pounds that Sherlock was always teasing him about. "So how did Sherlock actually get that wound?" John sighed exasperatedly, hoping he wouldn't have the same gruesome flashbacks as the last five times he'd had to explain. No luck. "Well, a while ago, Sherlock and I…well, mostly Sherlock…helped to break a smuggling ring transporting valuable antiques from China to the U.K, the Black Lotus. The leader of their operations in London is apparently dead now, and even though she was murdered by her boss her son blamed Sherlock for her death. He tracked down Sherlock and tried to kill him. I came home just in time to see him shoot Sherlock. But the assassin came off worse, if you can believe it. Sergeant Donovan is apparently bored out of her mind monitoring him down in ICU." Watson's phone buzzed in his pocket. "Sorry, gimme a sec." 1 new message-Sherlock Holmes.

_john the elvs keep gigle and unicorn is munchng on te qilt HELPP._

"Oh god, they increased his dose again." John groaned, looking up to find Mycroft already turning to leave. "You drove for an hour to see your brother and now you won't even come upstairs and say hello? What meeting or conference or phone call is so important that you can't even stay with your own brother, and leave him to be cared for by his housemate?" John demanded, trying to quell his rising fury. Mycroft looked down at his feet ashamed, his umbrella hanging limply by his side. Even the umbrella looked apologetic. "John, one thing you have to understand about Sherlock is that he's proud, incredibly proud. If I went up there and saw him now, my genius brother reduced to a babbling simpleton…he'd never forgive me."  
>"So what makes you think he'll be fine with me seeing him like this?"<br>"…because he doesn't think of you as just his housemate, John." And Mycroft swivelled and strode away quickly, before John could recover enough from this unexpected show of trust to ask him just what he meant.

John could hear Sherlock from several hundred metres down the hallway as he hurried back, his whiny, childish voice confirming that he was very, very high indeed. Several young nurses crowded around the window, peering in at Sherlock and whispering. "What?" the boldest of them asked, seeing Watson's annoyed expression. "He's gorgeous!"  
>"sooo cute!" chorused the other nurses at various ridiculously high pitches. John rolled his eyes and pushed the door open. But it was impossible to stay mad at the sight of Sherlock's radiant smile that shone out as soon as he saw John. It felt to John like someone had just wrapped his heart in a fluffy blanket (merino sheep's wool, obviously), given it a cup of hot chocolate (with two marshmallows) and sat it next to a roaring fire (real wood, not those horrible gas ones). It felt like…home. And then Sherlock started to whine. "Jooooohhhhhnnn, I'm so HUNGRY. And the unicorn ate my blanket!" there were still five blankets on the bed, as there had been when John left, and there was a bowl of soup on a table less than half a metre from Sherlock's hand, but John had realised quite quickly that the rational, logical part of Sherlock's brain was probably still in that induced coma. He missed it, although he would never, ever admit it, especially not to Sherlock. He picked up the bowl of soup that was lukewarm by now, and despite Sherlock's protests that the spoon was actually a lizard, he somehow succeeded in feeding Sherlock the whole bowl, deciding to just ignore the chorus of muffled 'awwwwwww!' noises coming from just outside the door. Thankfully one of the senior doctors quickly dispersed the nurses and respectfully closed the blinds. Sherlock managed to sit up straight in bed for the first time after he finished eating, and leaned over to rest his head on John's right shoulder. "Mmmmm, warm Johnny." he murmured, snuggling into John's woollen sweater. John was too shocked to do anything except sit there as Sherlock rubbed against him like a cat, mind furiously whirling around in circles. Was this the way Sherlock really felt, and the medication was just taking away his mental walls and inhibitions? Or was this just the medicine talking, and Sherlock was really just what he always seemed-repressed, nearly asexual and totally uninterested in whatever it was that John actually felt towards him? Sherlock wound his arms around John's waist, and John realised that whatever the answer was, right now he didn't care. Sherlock might be the same obsessive sociopath again the minute he left the hospital, but for now he had all he had ever yearned for from Sherlock, and even if the walls crashed back down tomorrow he still had this to treasure forever. "Silly tube, stopping me from hugging my John-John!" Sherlock muttered crossly, and before John could stop him Sherlock yanked the drip from his arm. "Oh god, Sherlock, no!" John shouted, running out to the hall in search of a nurse to put it back in. It took half-an-hour to get out the shards of needle that Sherlock had broken off when he yanked it and to put a new needle in, thirty minutes of Sherlock putting on a brave face even as his arm bled and the level of painkillers in his bloodstream dropped back down to where he was in serious pain again. John took a breath to ask the nurse to give him something, she couldn't see that Sherlock was in pain, his tensed shoulders and teeth biting his lip were too subtle…and he breathed out again. It was Sherlock. Stubbornly stupidly brave Sherlock. He didn't want to admit it, he couldn't, and so John would only anger and insult him by admitting it for him. At last the new needle was in and the nurse gone, and Sherlock's sly death drip on the edge of a blanket started to relax. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he reached up quickly to scrub it away. John caught him by the wrist. "Let it fall." he whispered. "It's okay." The silence was heavy with Sherlock's decision. Finally, he sighed tiredly, and more tears fell. John let go of his wrist, and Sherlock curled his fingers around John's, cautiously, tentatively, so afraid. John squeezed his hand tightly. "The medication is kicking back in again." Sherlock said, slightly sadly. He looked over at John for the first time since he had broken the needle, eyes still shining and lips trembling. He leaned forward, slowly, falteringly, and his lips met John's halfway. There was fear and nervousness in Sherlock's kiss, but something else, something soft and bright and indefinable, that immediately had John wishing that they would never have to let go. And then, all too soon, he felt Sherlock's lips drawing away, curling upwards into a silly smile, and suddenly he fell back onto the pillows, chuckling. "Bunny rabbits!" he joyfully declared to a now very dejected John.<br>"Goodnight, Sherlock."


	2. Chapter 2

John jolted awake early the next morning in a cold sweat. Sunlight was feebly struggling through the skeleton fingers of the trees, and glinting off the mounds of slowly-melting slush and the frost on the grass. It was February and still bitterly cold, even at- his watch read 8:06am. He rubbed his neck that was stiff and sore from sleeping in a chair for the third night in a row, and grappled with his bleary mind to try and remember what had woken him up. The nightmare was quickly slipping out of his conscious mind, and all he could remember was Sherlock, wounded and unconscious, and something about...bunnies? Thank god that it had only been a dream...wait. _Oh bollocks_. His memories finally flooded back into his awaking brain just as Sherlock rolled over on the bed in front of him, utterly adorable, blissfully asleep and happily dreaming. Sherlock reached his hand out, grasping for something in his dream. "Come here Twilight Sparkle, come here Pinkie Pie! Let's go frolic in the meadow!" _Oh dear God_, thought John, _I can't believe he actually watched those My Little Pony episodes on my laptop..._ Sherlock's arm dropped back onto the blankets, and his long eyelashes fluttered delicately as he opened his eyes. "John-John?" He called feebly, struggling to sit up. "There is my John-John! I want cuddles!" He beamed ecstatically, far too hyper already to notice or care about the massive bags under John's eyes, or his stubble, or his exhausted frown. "I'm coming, crazy hyper Sherlock, I'm coming." He muttered, sitting down on the edge of the bed and awkwardly fitting himself into Sherlock's flailing arms. They sat for what seemed like hours but was probably only 15 minutes or so, with Sherlock wrapping his arms tightly around John and whispering strange ramblings about spaghetti and religion into the nape of John's neck. Eventually a nurse quietly knocked on the door and tentatively came in. "Sorry sir", she said shyly, "but the doctor says he can be discharged today, and sent me to do a few last checks to make sure he's fine to leave. Nothing too painful or anything."

"Oh, okay then, well...if you'll be with him for a little while, I should probably go get some coffee. Sherlock?"

"Mmmm...yes John-John?"

"I'm going to go get some coffee, but this lovely nurse is going to take care of you for a little while, okay?"

"No, no, you have to stay here, I need my John." Sherlock whimpered, and clung to John like a frightened child. John's heart felt like it was breaking in two at the sight of Sherlock's quivering bottom lip, but it had been nearly a day since he'd been able to work up the courage to leave Sherlock's side and go down to the cafeteria, and his presence would probably only hinder the nurse. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I have to go. I'll be back very soon."

"Promise?" Sherlock's eyes were sparkling jewels of building tears.

"Of course Sherlock, I promise." Sherlock reluctantly uncoiled his arms from around John's waist and John turned and left with a heavy heart. _Oh come on, don't be so pathetic and overprotective, you're a soldier for god's sake,_ he mentally berated himself, _what could possibly happen to Sherlock in twenty minutes?_

Almost half an hour later, John was walking back down the long hallway towards Sherlock's room when he heard the scream. The scream of a man with a child's fear, desperate, terrified. Sherlock's scream. Not even gunfire ripping into the ground around him during the war had made John run as fast as he did now. Adrenaline coursed through him in fiery torrents, shutting off his mind, screaming to his muscles. _Faster. Faster. Sherlock. SHERLOCK. FASTER._ At last, Floor 2, Room 21-Sherlock's room. With a madly pounding heart he wrenched the door open, to find Sherlock crying, sobbing, hugging his knees to his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Said the nurse, bewildered and shocked. "I was just taking the I.V out of his arm, and all of a sudden he started trying to pull away and started crying..."

"John, please, make the dinosaur go away, please John." Begged Sherlock, tears still streaming down his cheeks. "She's trying to eat me with her big sharp teeth, she's going to swallow me up and then I won't see you ever again."

"I'm so sorry about him, you can go now if all your tests are done, I'll calm him down." John reassured the nurse, who immediately scrambled for the door.

"Yes Mr. Watson, please just sign him out at reception when you leave. And make sure he takes the tablets on the table three times a day." The nurse told him hurriedly as she closed the door behind her.

"Shhhh, Sherlock, it's okay, I'm back." Watson gently whispered, climbing onto the bed and taking Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock pushed him away and blinked at him in confusion for a few minutes, while Watson perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, waiting to see what Sherlock would do next. Given the rollercoaster ride of Sherlock's behaviour for the last two days, he didn't have a clue. Sherlock finally shook his head like a wet dog trying to dry off, and stood up on shaking feet.

John instinctively put his hand out to support him. "John, I'm fine, I can stand by myself." Sherlock muttered in a very faint attempt at a stern voice, but he took John's hand anyway. Sherlock's hands were freezing cold, but John didn't even consider letting go. Sherlock's long, feeble, shaking fingers said more about his mental and physical condition than he could ever admit in words. John helped Sherlock change out of his hospital gown and into clothes that Mycroft had brought along on his first visit as discreetly as possible, being both relieved and slightly disappointed that Sherlock had kept his underwear on. Once Sherlock was changed, Watson led him slowly downstairs, signed him out at reception and hailed a cab outside the hospital. They spent the drive home in near-silence, with Sherlock huddled against the door and glaring out the window at the struggling mid-morning sun. Every few minutes Sherlock would furiously scrub a tear from his cheek. _Was it pain that was making him cry?_ John wondered. _Fear? Embarrassment? How much of the last few days could Sherlock remember?_ He said nothing as the cab drove on towards 221b Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the long wait between chapters, I've been on a school camp for the past week and so I had to resort to using a pen and paper to draft this chapter :O But I'm back home now and so here's the last chapter, complete with the most pathetically corny ending in the history of fanfic. Thankyou for all the reviews, it's been really flattering and encouraging to receive so much positive feedback :) Thanks and enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Watson had never really understood the difference between a house and a home until he returned to 221B Baker Street on that cold, weary afternoon. When he and Sherlock had first moved in it had been just a house, full of danger and pickled body parts and defaced wallpaper. But now the mess of scattered bills on the table, and pile of mugs filled with dregs by the sink, and even that godawfully creepy skull on the mantelpiece, made him feel like he had found a home for the first time since he left home for the army. And there was Sherlock to complete the picture, pushing past him roughly to neurotically check every crevice and teetering pile to reassure himself that his various eerie oddities and nauseating experiments remained untouched. Watson couldn't help but simply lean against the kitchen counter and watch, partly in acceptance of his helplessness to stop Sherlock in his obsessive drug-withdrawal haze, and partly to watch the way his eyes sparkled and blazed and his hair swirled as he circled the room. He was...beautiful. Why had he taken so long to realise?<p>

Sherlock suddenly stopped completely still in the middle of the living room. "Watson...John...why haven't you cleaned?" He demanded, pacing the floor in angry confusion. "There are at least seven ears in the oven, there's still mugs all over the pile of clean washing, the salmon is still in the bathtub-"

"There's a _salmon_ in the _bathtub_?"

"It was delivered yesterday. Mummy likes her fish fresh and she's coming for dinner tomorrow night." Sherlock retorted with a melodramatic eye roll, as if he even needed to explain. "Anyway, there's exactly the same dirty clothes in the hamper, and unless you've _finally_ become smart enough to know how to clear your internet history, you haven't been on your laptop in nearly five days."

"Hey!"

"Choose a better password than Sarahxx," Sherlock countered with an even more disdainful eye roll, "and I wouldn't bother to break in! You make it too easy."

"You don't have the right-"

"WHY, John? Tell me! Why haven't you used your laptop, you blogging addict? Where. Have. You. Been?" Every word was enunciated as a frightened punch to John's ears.

"I couldn't leave you." He said it in a whisper, but Sherlock still heard it. They were the words he had always needed to hear. The words that had been in John's mind for days had finally forced their way out past his lips, and he immediately regretted it. The kiss in the hospital was just another bad idea from Sherlock's drug-addled mind, nothing more than John selfishly taking advantage of a man who trusted him and almost no-one else. What was he thinking? What was wrong with him lately? He stormed out without a backward glance, not having the strength to endure Sherlock's looks of derision and disapproval at such an admission of emotion and hence weakness.

By eight o'clock life was almost back to normal-they were sitting with their feet propped up on the coffee table that was littered with Chinese takeaway boxes. As usual, they were watching a ridiculously inaccurate crime show for no reason, and as usual Sherlock was lazily spouting insightful advice that went completely unheeded by the incompetent detectives on-screen. "So, seeing Sarah tomorrow? She must be angry that you spent so long at the hospital...with me."

"Not exactly...well, I asked her to sort of...let things cool off...rather a lot."

"So you're not seeing each other anymore?" Sherlock's face lit up brilliantly.

"...No, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's eager fist pump and whoop of joy. "Oh come on, why do you care?" Sudden silence from Sherlock.

"Um, well...why did you leave Sarah?" Silence from John too. Sherlock eventually broke the deadlock by whispering "Why did you stay with me all that time?" John sighed and considered making an excuse, but the truth, though frightening to tell, was inevitable. It had to be acknowledged someday or he would go crazy, he couldn't keep it quiet any longer. "Because I...I love you...Sherlock." There was a brief glimpse of a thoroughly shocked face, and then a rustle of a long coat, and suddenly Sherlock's sparkling blue eyes were only inches away, his shaking, nervous breath rushing across John's cheeks. John had never seen him so close, so afraid, so excited. The next five words were the loudest whisper John had ever heard as they echoed through his heart and blood and mind. "I...love you too John." Trembling arms wound around John's waist, holding him tightly as if he would be torn away from him at any moment. Their kiss was shaky and glorious and nervous and sweet, the kiss of two men shaking off denial to realise that they were finally the perfect partners in crime.


End file.
